


Decolletage

by its_mike_kapufty



Series: AU Biscuits [7]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: 1800s America, Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossdressing, Drinking, Drunken Flirting, Lost a Bet, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: “Are you tickled, then?” Link asks expectantly. Rhett’s lips part and Link runs his hands over his hips and down around the bustle. “Is this what you wanted?”Rhett tries to laugh but at most it’s a twitch of a smirk, and he feels the heavy canvas shirt and pants on himself, at once stuffy and restrained and too-hot.“Alarming,” he notes with a swallow.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: AU Biscuits [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399561
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Decolletage

Bourbon goes down smooth and irons out all the funny little inhibitions on its way down one’s throat, and that’s how Rhett finds himself grinning and cloud-headed against the door frame of the drawing room. His cheeks are warm and the parlor smells of a mix of Virginia’s finest, cut and rolled.

“Does milady need an extra set of hands?” he calls over his shoulder.

“How does a woman _do_ this,” a haughty voice responds through strain. “I feel like a rabbit fallen into a trap. S’no wonder they need assistance.”

“I can tie the back, if you need.” His offer is self-satisfied. The smoke wafting about the ceiling draws his eye and his smile. “If you’re daft, that is.”

“It looks like a mangled boot! I bet _you_ couldn’t.”

“Haven’t learned your lesson on bets then, have you?”

“Quiet.”

The ruffling of fabric is humorous in and of itself, and there’s a trickling thrill of misbehavior in knowing they’re alone. Normally townsfolk and neighbors would be about the house in spades, chortling and sharing the news of the area, yet with everyone snowed in it only seemed fair to pass the time between the rarest of friends with some drink and mischief. Two grown men acting the part of fools in the bar back-rooms of New Orleans, using miscellanea acquired through McLaughlin-tactful bartering.

“Don’t damage it,” Rhett reminds him through the haze.

“It won’t tie. I’ll wear it as it is.”

Link steps past and announces himself, donning his punishment: a fine dress with fabric that shimmers unlike wool or cotton, dyed a rich plume of ocean breakage with yellow lace that’s gold to the eye.

It doesn’t fit, but it doesn’t _doesn’t_ fit, either; where the shoulders should be tight, space is borrowed from the forgiving chest and graces his collarbones, and the snug hug of his waist seems all too appropriate for that of the female form for which it was designed. 

His hips exaggerate. The corseted bottom of the dress, though untied, billows out layers that move like a creek when he twists and examines himself, sure to keep his bared back from view.

This is Rhett’s cue to laugh.

He doesn’t. 

“Are you tickled, then?” Link asks expectantly. Rhett’s lips part and Link runs his hands over his hips and down around the bustle. “Is this what you wanted?”

Rhett tries to laugh but at most it’s a twitch of a smirk, and he feels the heavy canvas shirt and pants on himself, at once stuffy and restrained and too-hot.

“Alarming,” he notes with a swallow. 

Link eyes him. “You must be quite drunk.” He’s still counting on his best friend’s gratification through hazing and teasing, or the suggestion of summoning the local photographer through the snow for a portrait to commemorate their silliness. 

The longer he waits, the more the smoke around them feels new and strange.

“I…” Rhett folds his hands behind his back, leans on those bunched fists on the wall. He tilts his head back to look down his nose at his guest. “It’s certainly a look on you.”

“D’you find me handsome, Mr. McLaughlin?” Link goads, grinning. He isn’t supposed to have the upper hand, and yet.

Still staring, Rhett doesn’t respond, but his eyes manage to flick down the full length of the piece.

“Bring me into your home, have me dolled up. Debonair of you. Ever the gentleman, to show me such finery. If we went into town, would you wear me on your arm? Show me off…?” Link allows himself a moment of sensuality—holds his jaw and drags his hands down over his exposed neck, along his stomach and down to his thighs. Even in private between close companions, it’s lewd to behold, and Rhett stiffens as he watches. 

“Link…”

“Or more, perhaps? I could show you my ankles,” Link breathes quietly, the testing sincerity on his face a product of spirits and bravery. He gathers the dress at his thighs and begins lifting, and Rhett cannot fathom to look elsewhere as Link’s bare feet peer out from under the hem. They’re dusted with hair, which should be unappealing… so why does Rhett’s heart skip at the thought of a _man_ in a dress, at _this man_ in a dress, alone with him in his home where no one could see nor judge them no matter their affairs?

Just as the curve of the promised skin begins to appear, Link drops the charade with a laugh, curtaining himself and shaking his head.

Rhett blinks fast, stupid and stunned while his friend walks past him and gives him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. “Don’t fret. I wouldn’t expose you to that.”

Rhett eases back into the wall for support and listens to Link change in the other room. 

Yes, he thinks as his heart hammers. Yes, how terrible that would have been.


End file.
